Diamond in the rough, p.18
Diamond in the Rough, page 18
He’d been moved by the sight of Poppy’s distress when she’d been standing next to the abused horse, and he’d been powerless against the tears in her eyes. His only goal at that time had been to soothe her anguish, and he’d known without a doubt that buying the horse for her would do exactly that.
He was not a gentleman, though, who was given to impulsive acts, and that the lady who’d brought about such an unusual occurrence was Poppy Garrison, well, it was a bit of an alarming revelation.
She was the most irritating lady he’d ever known, as well as being completely unpredictable. She was also woefully negligent in maintaining a sense of proper decorum. However, even with all her deficiencies, she’d somehow wormed her way under his very proper British skin, and . . . she’d begun to matter to him.
Drawing in a much-needed breath of air, while reminding himself yet again that the last lady he should ever allow to matter to him was an American, and one who didn’t seem overly impressed with anything having to do with British aristocracy, Reginald struggled to come up with some reasonable reply to Viola’s demand, stunned when not a single thing came to mind.
Thankfully, the Van Rensselaer cook took that moment to bustle into the room, bearing a tray of raw meat. Stopping directly in front of him, and without even a by-your-leave, she picked up a slab of meat, slapped it over his eye, and as blessed coolness immediately seeped through an eye that was almost swollen shut, she marched her way over to Murray. After slapping two pieces of meat over Murray’s eyes, rendering that man blind, she marched out of the room again.
“Should I be worried that I’m soon to come down with an infection from having uncooked meat on my face?” Murray asked to no one in particular.
“What in the world are they trying to do to you?” someone suddenly demanded from the doorway right as Mr. Parsons rushed into the room, pulling down a waistcoat that had begun to lift because of the rushing.
“Mrs. John Middleton has come to call,” Mr. Parsons announced, sending Viola a look of apology before he spun smartly around and quit the room as Mrs. Middleton advanced across the Aubusson carpet, not stopping until she reached her son.
Murray, who’d been holding the beef over his eyes with both hands, stripped off one filet, blinking owlishly at his mother who was bristling with indignation.
“Mother, what are you doing here?”
Mrs. Middleton’s indignation increased. “What am I doing here?” she all but shrieked. “Rumors are swirling around town about the unfortunate trouble you’ve recently experienced, rumors I was quite certain were nothing more than fabricated bits of mischief, but apparently, they were nothing less than the truth.” She leaned over and peered at Murray’s face, straightening as all the color leached from her cheeks. “What happened to your face, and why do you have cotton shoved up your nose?”
“It was bleeding after the physician reset it.” The corners of Murray’s lips twitched. “I broke it, you see, after I, along with Reginald and Beatrix, rushed to save Poppy from a band of criminals intent on stealing her reticule.”
Mrs. Middleton raised a hand to her chest. “You intentionally threw yourself into a band of criminals?”
Murray slapped the filet over his eye again. “’Course I did. As a gentleman, could you expect me to do anything less?”
For a second, Mrs. Middleton didn’t say a thing, but then she rounded on Viola, who seemed completely unfazed about having an irate woman in her drawing room, given the cool nod she sent to Murray’s mother.
“I’m holding you and your granddaughter responsible for my son’s condition, Viola, as well as responsible for whatever he’s wearing, which appears to be a lady’s dressing gown.”
Viola drew herself up. “While I will accept responsibility for the dressing gown, since it is mine, even if I didn’t know he was going to be wearing it, I cannot accept responsibility for Murray’s condition. I was not present when he was injured, but I do believe you’re missing the greater point here. Murray, I’m pleased to say, rose to my granddaughter’s defense in what I can only imagine was a magnificent fashion, and at great peril to his person. That, my dear, suggests you raised him right. So instead of berating him, or anyone else for that matter, you should be thankful you can claim a chivalrous gentleman as your son.”
Color began returning to Mrs. Middleton’s face. She opened her mouth, closed it a second later, then sent Viola the barest hint of a nod before she turned back to Murray.
“It was well done of you, darling, to save Miss Garrison, but to spare you from suffering additional mayhem in the future, I’m now going to have to insist you discontinue your association with her. I also must insist you take that meat off your face because I need to get you home and seen by our physician straight away.”
Murray peered at his mother after he lifted one of the filets. “Poppy is my friend, and I have no intention of discontinuing my association with her. Furthermore,” he continued as Mrs. Middleton seemed to swell on the spot, “I’m not going home. If you’ve forgotten, you tossed me out on my ear.”
“That was done in the heat of the moment, brought about because you were being obstinate, a new trait of yours that I’m going to demand you immediately discontinue. You must know I was never serious about tossing you out of the house. And now, with that settled, come along. It’s time you and I went home.”
Murray shook his head. “I think not, Mother. It’s past time I lived on my own, and just so you won’t be worried I’ve nowhere to go, I’ve decided to take up residence at the recently completed Osborne flats. I’ll send my direction around to you after I get settled.”
That declaration was all it took for Mrs. Middleton to completely lose her composure. As she began railing at Murray, who merely returned the filet to his eye and seemed to go deaf as well as blind, Reginald found himself at a complete loss of what to do next.
He’d never been privy to such a spectacular display of dramatics before. Turning his attention to Poppy to see how she was reacting, he found her, along with Beatrix, calmly sitting on the settee, both ladies swiveling their attention to Murray, then his mother, then back to Murray again, quite as if they were watching a tennis match and not an ever-escalating argument.
“I must say this isn’t exactly the homecoming I was expecting,” a voice suddenly boomed over the din.
Reginald turned to the door and found a gentleman standing there—a gentleman who looked vaguely familiar.
As he tried to place the man, Poppy jumped up from the settee and bolted across the room, sidestepping Mrs. Middleton, who’d stopped railing at Murray and was gaping at the man in the doorway.
“Grandfather!” Poppy exclaimed before being scooped up into an enthusiastic hug by a man who was apparently Mr. George Van Rensselaer—Poppy’s grandfather, Viola’s husband, and a man Reginald now distinctly remembered seeing at a business meeting he’d attended with his father.
Unfortunately, Mr. Van Rensselaer was a man who, if he recognized Reginald, would know he was no mere traveling companion, but rather the second son of one of the most influential dukes in Britain.
Chapter 15
“I see you’ve inherited your mother’s flower-arranging abilities.”
Wincing when a thorn pierced her finger, Poppy looked up from the disaster she was creating and smiled as her grandfather moseyed into what her grandmother referred to as the sunroom.
It was an appropriate name for the room, what with the floor-to-ceiling windows that encompassed two complete walls. And even though the day outside was gloomy and marked with fitful spurts of snow, the sunroom was cozy, the fire in the fireplace crackling merrily away, and any chill that seeped through the windows kept at bay because of the forced heat her grandparents’ house enjoyed.
“I remember watching Elizabeth in this very room, although she was usually not smiling when she attempted to create her floral arrangements.” George’s lips curved. “She deliberately paired the most unlikely of flowers together, often annoying your grandmother by choosing colors that did not complement each other.”
“If Mother deliberately went out of her way to annoy Grandmother with her flower arrangements, I’m surprised Grandmother didn’t discontinue asking my mother to arrange flowers in the first place.”
“One would have thought that to be a logical solution, but your grandmother is a stubborn woman and wasn’t one to pick her battles, preferring to fight daily with Elizabeth over the most absurd topics.”
“Which does explain why they’ve been mostly estranged for so many years.” Poppy picked up another rose and began stripping the thorns from the stem, regretting that she hadn’t chosen a less hostile flower to use for all the arrangements Viola wanted her to assemble for the next day’s tea.
Sticking the rose in the vase and grimacing when she realized she’d cut it at least five inches too short, Poppy reached for another flower, stilling when her grandfather stepped beside her.
“How about you go take a seat by the fire and let me do this,” he surprised her by saying.
“You know how to arrange flowers?”
“When your grandmother and I were first courting, we used to spend hours scouring the flower vendors in the city, looking for the perfect blooms. We’d then repair to her parents’ house, and under the watchful eye of Viola’s chaperone, we’d spend the afternoon arranging each flower exactly so.”
Poppy moved to a chair next to the fireplace and sat down. “It’s difficult to imagine you and Grandmother courting or picking out flowers because—”
“We don’t strike you as romantic types?” George finished for her as he expertly stripped the rose he was holding of its thorns, eyed the stem, then snipped the stem two inches before he placed it into a crystal vase.
Poppy’s lips curved. “I can’t say ‘romantic’ is what first springs to mind when I think of you or Grandmother, but were you truly possessed of a romantic nature back in the day?”
“I’m not ancient, Poppy. I’m certain I could still be a romantic type if I set my mind to it.”
“And how do you think Grandmother would respond if you set your mind to romance?”
George snipped the stem off another rose. “She could very well conclude I’ve taken leave of my senses. But speaking of your grandmother, where is she? Has she vacated the premises to avoid the numerous callers who’ve stopped by today, anxious to see if you’ve experienced any new adventures?”
Since Poppy had resolved to comport herself as a diamond in the making, she’d not had a single adventure over the five days that had passed since the incident on Broadway. It was a dreary way to spend her time, but since she had made a promise to her grandmother, she’d been trying to embrace the role of true lady, even though she found the activities she was limited to relatively dull.
Afternoon calls had been a must and then there’d been a few dinners and small balls where she’d found herself participating in conversations about the weather and the latest fashions. She’d been tempted to enter into a conversation about suffragists that Beatrix had started at a dinner held by Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish but refused to give in after the society matron she’d been standing beside had proclaimed the discussion inappropriate.
The only enjoyment she’d had of late was the time devoted to her lessons with Reginald. He’d suggested she share her lessons with the Leggett sisters since he did seem to be in much demand. And because Maisie and Helene’s mother was still a little leery about Reginald’s abilities, they’d decided to hold the lessons at the Leggett residence, something Reginald seemed relieved about, although she had no idea why that was.
He’d also made himself scarce before and after those lessons. And even though she understood he had limited time these days, what with how many young ladies were clamoring for his services, she found herself somewhat put out over his lack of attention, and . . . she missed his company.
Her grandfather suddenly cleared his throat, recalling Poppy back to the question he’d asked her.
“Forgive me, Grandfather. I seem to have gotten lost in thought. As for Grandmother, she has not gone out. She’s in the attic with Murray.”
“Ah, Murray, now there’s an interesting gentleman. But what could Viola and Murray possibly be doing in the attic?”
“Grandmother converted the attic into an art studio some years ago and spends almost all of her spare time up there painting.”
“Viola created an art studio?”
“You do know that she enjoys painting, don’t you?”
George nodded as he stripped off a few more thorns. “She’s done that since I’ve known her, but I suppose I never considered that she might enjoy it. I merely thought she pursued painting because it’s what ladies do.” He placed the thorn-free rose into a vase and picked up another one. “She and your mother were always at odds over that. Elizabeth, as I’m sure you’re aware, is horrid with a paintbrush, although your grandmother was of the belief that Elizabeth was deliberately trying to sabotage any artistic endeavor as a way to annoy her.”
“Mother doesn’t need to deliberately sabotage her art. She simply possesses no talent for it.” Poppy smiled. “I seem to have inherited that lack of talent from my mother as well, which is why I was banished from the attic and sent to arrange flowers. Grandmother was becoming frustrated with my efforts with oil and canvas, but she certainly is enjoying her time with Murray as they paint.”
“Murray’s a talented painter?”
“Indeed. When I left them, he was showing Grandmother how to capture a ray of sun just so. I must say she seems to have changed her opinion about him.” Poppy lowered her voice. “She warned me a while ago to keep my distance from him because he’s not considered fashionable in the inner circles of society. Now, however, she’s invited him to stay here until he secures himself new premises and seems to be enjoying his company.”
George abandoned the flowers, settling himself into a chair across from Poppy a moment later. “I imagine you’ve been wondering why Viola offered Murray such unexpected hospitality.”
Poppy smiled. “I can’t deny that, although I’m almost convinced she did so to annoy Mrs. Middleton.”
George returned the smile. “While Viola is certainly capable of deliberately annoying a person, I’m relatively certain, in this case, that she offered Murray a place to stay to alleviate the anxiety Hazel was most assuredly experiencing after Murray refused to return home with her. You have to admit that Murray was looking beyond pathetic a few days ago, which certainly must have been of grave concern to his mother.”
George’s eyes began to twinkle. “I know you’ve probably not seen much in the way of compassion from your grandmother, dear, but deep down—very deep down—Viola is a good woman. She’s merely a victim of her own strict and unemotional upbringing, but before I continue on with that tale, allow me to take the liberty of ringing for coffee and a few treats.” George got up from his chair and moved to where an annunciator was attached to the wall. Pushing a knob that would alert the kitchen that service was required in the sunroom, George was just settling back to his seat when Mr. Parsons walked into the room.
“Ah, Mr. Parsons, my granddaughter and I would like a pot of coffee, along with some small cakes, if Mrs. Hardie has any of those available.”
Mr. Parsons inclined his head. “Very well, Mr. Van Rensselaer.” He turned to Poppy. “Would you like me to include a few of those pastries you baked this morning?” His lips curved. “I must say I enjoyed them immensely, although I do believe I may have insulted Mrs. Hardie by stating that I thought the pastries you made surpassed hers.”
Poppy fought a grin. “That was not well done of you, Mr. Parsons. Mrs. Hardie is a most excellent cook, but you must know that she’s a sensitive sort. I fear you may find yourself regretting making such a statement when you sit down to your dinner this evening.”
“You might be correct about that.” Mr. Parsons suddenly smiled. “Or Mrs. Hardie might find herself unable to resist rising to the challenge of besting your recipes, which could very well see the kitchen producing an abundance of sumptuous treats.” With that, Mr. Parsons executed a perfect bow, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, leaving Poppy alone with George, who was regarding her closely.
“You bake?”
Poppy nodded. “I do, and unlike my less-than-stellar painting and flower-arranging abilities, I’m rather proficient in the kitchen.”
“Does Viola know you bake?”
“She does, but she doesn’t really approve, which is exactly why I was in the kitchen this morning at the unheard of hour of five.” She smiled. “Grandmother does not step foot out of her bedchamber until nine, so if I find myself with a hankering to stick my hands in some dough, I have to get up well before that.”
George frowned. “Does Elizabeth bake?”
“Indeed, but don’t start taking yourself to task for not knowing that. Mother didn’t discover a love for the kitchen until after she married my father.”
“It is regrettable, though, that I know so little about my own daughter.”
“It’s difficult to know a person when you only see them for a few days every year, and from what I remember, there were many times when you weren’t in New York when Mother came for her yearly visit.”
“Another regret of mine.” George looked up as Mr. Parsons walked through the door again, bearing a tray with a silver coffeepot and a plate stacked high with treats.
After Mr. Parsons poured the coffee and handed Poppy and her grandfather a small plate of pastries, he inclined his head and quit the room.
As her grandfather took his first bite of pastry, Poppy watched him closely, grinning when he released a groan and proclaimed it the best pastry he’d ever tasted.
“Which is exactly what I’d expect a grandfather to say to his granddaughter,” she returned before she picked up her cup.
“I’m afraid I’ve not been much of a grandfather to you, dear,” George said, picking up his own cup. “Your grandmother and I have failed your entire family by allowing hurts from the past to keep us apart for so long.”
